


Calico Skies

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, One True Pairing, Relationship Genesis, Romance, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:05:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was written that they would love each other.<br/>From the moment they opened their eyes.</p><p>John and Sherlock develop a love that is only seen once in a lifetime, if that lifetime is fortunate.  There was no hurdle too big to keep them from their destiny.</p><p>Calico Skies is from Paul McCartney's Flaming Pie album.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 20 ~ Year One

**Author's Note:**

> Love and Gratitude to the amazing Burning_Up_A_Sun

Hearing the alarm, John awoke with a start, his heaviness making him feel as if he must have slept the sleep of the dead.  Lifting up his hand to rub his eye, he found that there was one… minor problem. 

“Dammit, Todd!” 

Shite!  How in the _hell_ did handcuffs get on his wrists?!  And pink, fuzzy ones at that?! 

“Something the matter?”  A voice tinged with playfulness came from near the end of the bed. Todd moved into John’s line of sight as he reached out to turn off the alarm.

“Yes, something’s the matter, you twat.”  Holding up his cuffed arms, he raised his eyebrows and pointedly nodded at them, for emphasis adding a tug at the strap tying the cuffs to the bed.  As if there could be any doubt what the problem might be. 

“ _Uncuff me_.  Now!  I have to get to work,” he said, his exasperation heading toward overload. 

Todd stood towering over him, smiling, his pale flesh visible everywhere John could see.

Trying not to be distracted by the expanse of naked skin, John attempted to glare at him.  But he found it was hard to be angry when he was faced with the very generous cock practically staring him in the face.

Todd chuckled lightly, amused by his lover’s predicament.  “Well, if you’re late, just tell them you got tied up,” the mischievous smile on his face failing to show any sympathy whatsoever. 

John was in the habit of setting the alarm to allow for the maximum time to sleep. Four 16 – hour shifts in a row was inhumane.  Who could live on 5 hours sleep?  And in the middle of the day at that?  It was just not how anyone could live for any length of time.  It reminded him of his residency days when he had practically lived at the hospital.  He had been much younger then; sleep hadn’t seemed to be so important.  Now he was doing it to put a big down payment on a flat, a flat of his own.  Soon this self-inflicted cruelty would be over; he was getting close to the amount he needed.

John looked at his latest lover.  His latest live in, really; Todd so rarely went back to his own flat that he might as well move in.  It would save them both the trouble of pretending their relationship wasn’t more serious than it was getting to be. 

They’d been dating for six months now and John was starting to consider that Todd might be ‘The One’.  Now that he was firmly in his thirties he thought it might be time to start thinking about settling down and Todd seemed to be a good match.  They were both in the medical profession, John a doctor and Todd a surgical nurse.  They both loved to play rugby, and while much younger than John, Todd seemed to have gotten over his clubbing days and wanted to settle down.  They got along well, having only the occasional tiff. 

Was he in love?  He really didn’t know, but he thought he might be.  Besides, romantic love was overrated.  Compatibility was the key to a long relationship, that’s what his mum had always said.  And she and Dad had been married for 32 years before Dad died.  They had seemed happy enough.

And one thing that made John happy was Todd’s sense of sexual adventure.  He would never have thought that he himself was any type of slouch in the bedroom, but Todd was always one step ahead of him when it came to sex. 

Like this morning.  Waking up cuffed to the bed was not normally on the breakfast menu, but as it was…might as well make the most of it.

“Well, com’on then,” John urged, seeing that Todd was taking his sweet time, “now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?”  Just the thought of the possibilities made his cock get hard. 

“I am going to do _this_.”  Todd reached a long leg over John and straddled him as he pulled the strap that hung around the headboard, bringing John’s hands up above his shoulders, putting his well-muscled arms on display.

John felt himself grow harder.  As vulnerable as he should have felt, he instead found the situation pretty damn hot; he trusted Todd completely.  He rested his head on the headboard and watched the predatory flicker in the green eyes of his boyfriend.  The eyes that didn’t leave his as he pulled the covers off so John felt the cool air hit his erection.  The eyes that didn’t leave his until they lowered when he took John’s cock in his mouth.

John’s primal instinct told him to push his hips up to meet the warm, wet mouth that wrapped itself around him. 

“Jesus..fuck..!”  He tried to arch off the bed, but the green-eyed heathen wouldn’t let him, instead sitting on his legs and pulling the strap a little tighter so that he was totally at Todd’s mercy. 

The slow, rhythmic path Todd’s tongue swirled around his tip somehow evolved into sucking.  Jesus, how could he pull that hard on his dick? John thought.  It was like he was trying to suck the come right out of him…Christ!

John struggled to participate, but without being able to move his hands or his legs, all he could do was suffer.  Suffer the raging fire that was in his loins, watch the blond head bob up and down, listen to the occasional undignified slurp or smack. 

He pulled ineffectively at the strap hooked to his cuffs; nope, he couldn’t move.  He _could_ still talk, though.

“Hey, love, if you’d let me loose, I’d love to help you out; I don’t want to be the only one having fun here,” he said hopefully.

Looking up from where he was stoking the fire, impishly Todd said, “No babe, not letting you go.  Don’t worry, we’ll get you to work soon enough.”

Work!  Shite, how could he have forgotten about that?!  “Todd, l hate to rush things, but do you think you could just, uh, move things along?”  There was _no_ way he could walk out of the flat in this condition; it had to be taken care of.  NOW.

Todd could see the real anxiety in John’s eyes, knowing if he didn’t give his lover an orgasm _soon_ , there might be hell to pay. For both of them.

Focusing on the very serious business of getting John off, he sucked his cock hard and fast, pulling off just before John came. Just in time to enjoy the results of his handiwork. 

_____________________

Sherlock inserted the key into the lock of his flat in Regents Place and opened the door, his nose assaulted by the odor emanating from within.  He’d never been an especially tidy person, but even to him, the flat he looked at was slovenly and unkempt.  Mentally shrugging, he tossed his coat and scarf onto the chair sitting near the door, indifferent to the small heap his garments made when they slid off the chair to the floor.    

He’d lived here for a couple of years now, humiliatingly at the courtesy of his brother, but he’d never felt at home in this part of town.  The people he walked past on the sidewalks were far too posh for his taste; people who were more concerned about appearances than the things that really mattered; people who, had they known, would have sniffed in disdain over his chosen profession. 

“Consulting Detective? How very…interesting,” they would say, while inwardly rolling their eyes in self-congratulatory superiority. 

It had been weeks since Sherlock had been asked to work on a case for Scotland Yard.  Not that it was much of a hardship to not have been, after all, it took far more energy than should be necessary to suffer the likes of Anderson and Donovan.  Besides, the cases were all starting to look the same~ Dead body.  Foolhardy criminal.  Even more idiotic public officials.  As much as he had always been intrigued by the parade of stupidity the world had to offer, there just wasn’t... _enough_.  Enough challenges to keep him preoccupied.  Enough work to keep him stimulated.

He was getting bored.

His head _screamed_ from the lack of stimulation.  He knew his brain was like a well-oiled machine that needed to keep moving to maintain its acuity.   He was getting sluggish and that was a condition that was entirely intolerable. 

Much to his fascination, Sherlock had stumbled on a solution, a way out of the ordinariness that he felt his life had become.  A solution to sharpen his deductive edge during this unprecedented slump. 

A seven percent solution, to be exact.

He had found that cocaine was quite illuminating.  He could take a dose, or two, and time would float away, leaving him room to think, room to detach himself from the world that he was finding so inadequate.

________________________

The knock on the door was loud.  Too loud.  More like pounding than a knock really, Sherlock’s brain registered amidst the cloud he floated in.

“Go away!” he yelled, but the sound barely made it past his throat, coming out more of a mumble; he must be more dehydrated than he thought. 

“Open the door!” the knocker demanded, adding a few more pounds for emphasis.

The languidness Sherlock soaked in was delicious. 

 “SHERLOCK HOLMES!  Open the GODDAMN door or I will break it down!”

As annoying as it was to have someone about to knock the door in, he found he really couldn’t care.  Blinking, his eyes protested at the light.  Must make them go away to leave him in peace.  Must move, he thought.

He didn’t.

“SHER. LOCK. HOLMES!  TEN, NINE…”

Somewhere in the back of his brain he realized he would have to get himself to the door to make the would-be intruder go away.  It took a few attempts, but he managed to stand with the aide of the sofa arm.  Stepping over take out cartons half-full of semi-rotted food and empty soda cans, he staggered over to the door.

Sliding the chain off, he opened the door, managing to affect a dark scowl in an attempt to drive his visitor away. It had worked many times in the past, no reason it shouldn’t now.   He had to admit, he had a vague curiosity as to who was disturbing his sleep.  Though, to tell the truth, he didn’t know whether he had fallen asleep or passed out, it was all the same anymore. 

On the other side of the door was a middle-aged man with greying hair, a weathered face, and a scowl that Sherlock knew would put his to shame.

“Detective Inspector, to what do I owe this pleasure,” Sherlock said, the causticness of his comment lost in the weak delivery.   Having used all the energy he had just to make it across the room, he leaned heavily on the open door, his legs barely holding him up.

Looking at Sherlock, Lestrade’s anger dissolved into pity.  He had expected the worst, but his imagination had not gone far enough.  In just the few weeks since he’d seen him, the detective’s skin had gone sallow, his hair, dull.  Christ, he even looked like he had lost about 15 kilos.  15 kilos more than he could afford to lose.

“Jesus, Sherlock.  You look like you’re about at death’s door.”  Lestrade shook his head.  “Let me call Mycroft.”

Sherlock tried to focus on Lestrade, but it took too much effort.  Closing his eyes, he swayed; he looked about to drop.  “No,” he said with far less vehemence than he intended.  Opening his eyes back up, he gathered what wherewithal he could and glared at Lestrade with a faint hint of the old fire that was so seldom seen of late. 

Lestrade was conflicted.  He didn’t like to interfere in other people’s business, especially between Sherlock and his brother, knowing there was no love lost there.  But this was just too much.  Sherlock was using again and he feared that one day it might be once too many.  The last thing he wanted to do was knock on Mycroft Holmes’ door to tell him his brother had died.  Of an overdose. 

“Sherlock, you’re not well; you need help,” he said kindly, unwilling to sound harsh even if the situation would appear to dictate a more direct approach. 

Sherlock hated the pity he saw in the Inspector’s eyes.  It was demeaning and unwarranted.  Yes, a couple of times his dosage had been off, but he had built up a tolerance and had needed to adjust it.  He had it under control; he didn’t need _anybody’s_ help.  And certainly not Mycroft’s. 

“I’m absolutely fine, Inspector; I have it under control,” contradicting his words as he barely made it to the nearby chair, falling onto its hard surface.  He rested his elbows on legs that even through the pyjama bottoms looked far too thin and frail.

Lestrade pursed his lips.  He really did detest getting into the middle of these things, but he also didn’t want to see his friend abuse himself any further than he already had.  Sherlock could protest as much as he wanted, but he clearly did _not_ have it under control.

Thinking the situation over, and despite knowing he might not be making the wisest choice, he told Sherlock, “I won’t tell Mycroft.  Not right now.  _But,_ ” he warned,“you _have_ to lay off the drugs, Sherlock.  If you don’t you’re going to kill yourself.  And if you _don’t_ kill yourself, I won’t let you work for Scotland Yard again until you stop using; you’re too much of liability like this.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shrugged, finding it difficult to care about something that had held far too little interest to him since he had found this intriguing new answer to his boredom.

The apathy Sherlock showed towards the Inspector’s threat alarmed Lestrade more than the physical deterioration of the man sitting in front of him. Deducing crimes was Sherlock’s entire life and if losing that didn’t matter to him then there was little that would. 

“Here’s what I’m gonna do, Sherlock.  I’ll come by tomorrow, and if you don’t look any better, gotten yourself cleaned up and properly dressed, then I’ll have no choice but to call Mycroft.  I won’t let you do this to yourself.  As annoying a dick as you can be, I’d much rather have you pecking at my heels than…digging yourself an early grave.” 

Sherlock sat staring at the floor as though he hadn’t heard.

Lestrade made one more attempt to get through to the famously stubborn detective.

“Your choice, Sherlock, clean up or I’ll see that someone makes you.”  Lestrade stood there for a few more moments wondering where the former Sherlock had gone.  True, when off drugs he could be a proper pain in the arse, but it was far preferable to the lifeless image before him.

With no response forthcoming, Lestrade took a last look around the flat that looked as disheveled and uncared for as the man before him.  He turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him with a decided click. 

The sound of the door closing prompted Sherlock to pick his head up.   Where had Lestrade gone?  Just as well, he didn’t want to be bothered and he’d had more than enough “concern” thrust at him in his life.  It seemed he never could do what people wanted him to do, or at least not do it the way they wanted him to.

He had lost some of the pleasant buzz he had had and he wanted it back.  He needed to roust himself, so he could _think._   He’d done far too little of it lately.  Wasn’t there a case he had been working on, about a, a Violet…something or another?  It didn’t matter if he couldn’t remember her name right now, he’d be back to his usual dynamic self soon enough.  He had no doubt.

Lethargically making his way back to the sofa, he picked up a small leather case off the floor, and with trembling hands, removed the syringe, letting the case fall back onto the floor. Rolling up his pyjama sleeve, he strapped tubing around his arm.  It took him several attempts to get the needle into the vial, but he finally managed to insert it, finding the liquid he knew would provide him with the release he needed. Drawing out a syringe full of the solution he had mixed earlier in the day, and remembering to flick the hypodermic to remove the air bubble, he slid the needle into the crook of his left elbow, doing his best to avoid the fresh track marks.  Dropping the syringe into the open case, he laid his head on the pillow at the end of the sofa.  After releasing the tubing, he pressed the hem of his robe to the new wound to staunch what minimal amount of blood, if any, was trying to escape. 

A red haze took hold of his mind as his body relaxed, sinking him further into the sofa.  He exhaled in relief as his mind floated, floated into nothingness.

\--------------------------------

As John washed his hands in between patients, he thought about how sometimes Todd’s playfulness, while exciting, could veer into irresponsibility.  Like this morning.  Most times John would be thrilled to be cuffed to the bed and ‘tortured’, but not when he had to get to work or had some other responsibility that took precedence.  He didn’t understand how Todd didn’t get that. He knew that Todd took his own career very seriously and would never jeopardize his own livelihood.  John shook his head; there was no time to think about that now. 

If there was such thing as a normal night at the A&E, then this one was one of them.   A steady stream of patients with ailments both commonplace (“You have an ordinary cold, Mrs. Chamberlain. Next time why don’t you just wait to go into your doctor’s office, or better yet, buy some over the counter cold medication?”) to the outright idiotic (“Really Mr. Cavendish?  And just _why_ did you think it was a good idea to superglue a seashell to your pinky?).

But John found he couldn’t complain; the A&E was always interesting.  The variety of ailments and oddities kept the time moving quickly, challenging him to dredge up at any given moment the most obscure knowledge thrust upon him in his studies.

Around 3 a.m. was the time when it usually started getting _really_ interesting.  Sadly, it was because it was when the prostitutes, the drug addicts, the club-hoppers who’d had too good a time started rolling in.  It was the time when he saw the depravity and the hopelessness of the human condition on full display. 

The medics had just brought in a 29 year-old Caucasian male, possible overdose, and transferred him to a bed in a corner.  They had already established a saline solution drip and masked him for oxygen.

Pulling back the curtain that afforded little privacy, he saw a man in a beige trench coat standing near the bed, texting awkwardly on his mobile, a worried frown on his face.  His hair was mussed as if in a poor attempt at the latest style, but most likely it came from running his hand through his hair in nervousness.  Father?  John took a look at the unconscious man on the bed.  No, too young.  Boyfriend?  Though the age difference appeared to be at least 10 years, John knew he was in no position to judge the relationship between an older man and a much younger partner.  Not that it mattered, but he found that it helped to know who he was dealing with. 

While John examined the patient, he spoke with the patient’s…person. 

“I’m Dr. Watson, the attending physician tonight.  And you are…?”  He looked over at the man briefly, noting the fatigue, the brows pinched in concern. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade and this here is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock Holmes.  Now you didn’t hear _that_ name every day.

“Were you with him when he blacked out or was he alone?  Do you know how long he’s been unconscious?”

Mr. Holmes’ blood pressure and temp were high.  He was dehydrated, thus the saline solution, and on the inside of his elbows, the left particularly, were plenty of track marks.  John could see from the tracks that the drug use was sporadic, but perhaps it had increased recently. 

John still had not gotten a response.  “Inspector?” 

Lestrade started at the sound of John’s voice, so occupied was he at the sight of Sherlock’s stillness.  His lifelessness.

Wearily, Greg ran his hand through his hair.  “I saw him at about 2 this afternoon and he was, well, not fine, but he was up and about.  I told him I would check on him again tomorrow.”  Recalling what time it was, he amended, “Uh, I mean, today.  But it kept bugging me.  I’ve seen him bad before, but nothing like that. I couldn’t sleep thinking about it, so I called him and when he wouldn’t answer his mobile I went over to his flat.  He didn’t answer the door so I got one of his neighbors to help me break down the door and….”  He felt at a loss; he never thought Sherlock would wind up overdosing.  “He was like this,” splaying out his hand toward Sherlock even though the doctor’s back was to him.  “I called the medics, and…he hasn’t woken up.”  His eyes darkened with the fear he felt. “Christ.  Will he be alright?  I mean…Jesus, he can’t die.”

John looked at Inspector Lestrade.  It wasn’t often that a junkie came in with someone, so, well, normal and relatively mundane.  Usually they had a companion that looked as wrecked as they did.  Or, just as often, they came alone.  He didn’t know what the relationship was between these two men, but he knew that he didn’t want to cause the Inspector any more concern than he already had; it had obviously been a rough night for him.

He spoke quietly as he asked for confirmation of his suspicion, “He was using cocaine?”

“Yeh, I’m pretty sure it was cocaine.  He says he likes to use it to help him ‘think’.   I brought this vial with me that was lying on the floor by him.”  Lestrade handed the small bottle to John.

“Sherlock, he’s a, well..he calls himself a Consulting Detective.  He works with me at Scotland Yard on a freelance basis.  Right brilliant fellow, but he’s been a bit off his game lately so he uses cocaine once in a while to try to get the juices flowing again.  It’s never gotten in the way before, not until the last few months or so.”

“Did something traumatic happen recently that you know of?”  Even more gently John asked, “Do you have any reason to believe this was a suicide attempt?”

As John took the pulse of the man lying there, he studied him.  Noted the dark hair and lashes against the too pale skin, the cheekbones that looked more likely to have been chiseled by a sculptor than by God.  Noted the fine bedclothes that had gone too long without proper care.  Noted that his skin, once healthy, now sagged on underused and underfed muscles.

There was something about this one that got to John. Not that he had grown immune to the plights of the people who came in, but his compassion had at some point in his career migrated from his heart to his head; he no longer felt the need, or the desire, to place himself in the shoes of everyone that required care.

Even unconscious, there was a regal air to the man who reminded John of a neglected thoroughbred he’d once seen; the majesty of the animal had managed to shine through despite the skin and bones.

This one here was like that.

Having determined the pulse rate, John let the wrist go, moving his hand to brush limp fringe off the man’s damp forehead.

Now why had he gone and done that? 

He couldn’t help but wonder what had been so bad in this Sherlock fellow’s life that he’d felt he had had to resort to cocaine to cope. 

Or to escape.

 

 


	2. June 20 ~ Year Two

****

At 9:10 p.m. John’s mobile dinged, signaling that he must be off to the final  Narcotics Anonymous meeting he was to lead before he headed for Afghanistan the next day.   Unhooking the mobile from his belt, he turned off the alarm and left the house.  He was grateful for a reason to leave his guests, he really hated goodbyes.  Especially manufactured goodbyes with people who, except for his mum and sister, meant little to him.

He would have been even more grateful to leave had he known he was soon to see the young man he had treated in the A&E a year ago.  To once again see the man that, unbeknownst to him, would one day save his life. 

Would one day _become_ his life. 

* * *

 

At 9:15 p.m., the mobile in Sherlock’s pocket chirped, telling him it was time to go.  He would have said he found staying with the mundane case he was working on with Lestrade far preferable, but it made it easier to go to the meeting knowing it would finally be the last of them; he had quite come to detest them. 

Had he known he was about to meet the person who was to become the love of his life, he would have been intrigued to know there could be such a thing.  He had, of course, heard the phrase, but had never given thought to the possibility it might apply to him. 

* * *

 

“John, I’ve got it.  Just chill, okay?”  How frigging annoying, Harry thought.  Just how many times did John have to tell her what she needed to take care of while he was gone?  This was at least the tenth time, and besides, he’d written it all down.  She could handle it.

“And don’t forget to look in on mum at least once a week, she’s getting older you know and could use the company.”  No matter how many times he went over it with his sister John knew that if she went on a binge she was likely to forget everything he told her.  It was the thing he hated most about leaving, having to entrust to his alcoholic sister almost everything of importance in his life.  His home, his mother.  His finances.  He would be lucky to see any one of them again once he came back from Afgahanistan.

_If_  he came back.

When he came back.

He and Harry hadn’t been close since they had been kids, but he still felt a sentimental attachment.  She was his sister after all. 

“Why don’t you have your boyfriend, what’s his name…Todd.  Why don’t you have Todd take care of this whilst you’re gone.  You know I’m no good at this stuff.  Though if I got Clara to help me out…”

He sighed.  Really?  Had she forgotten?

“Todd and I broke up eight months ago.  _Eight_ months.  And as hard as this is to say, there isn’t anybody else, Harry.  You’re all I’ve got, the only person I could remotely trust my personal things with.  I went over it with Clara, too, so if you get stuck, just ask her.”

John liked Clara, despite the obvious defect that she had fallen in love with, and married, someone like his sister.  She seemed a good sort, kind and responsible.  Who knew, maybe she could help Harry turn around. Odder things happened in the world.  He just hoped for Clara’s sake she didn’t get dragged down by Harry’s selfish ways; it would ruin a good woman.

“I don’t know why the hell you enlisted, it’s not like it’s _our_ war, anyway.”  Harry looked at John as though he were committing some type of crime.  Or at least some extreme act of stupidity.  She would never understand him. 

Though John didn’t know what his sister was thinking, he would have had to agree with her; he didn’t totally understand either why he was going.  He just knew that as satisfying as his life was, he felt there was something _more._   Something more he could offer to the world at large.  Something more he could offer to the men and women who put their lives on the line in the name of freedom.  He felt as though there was something missing in his life and while enlisting in the Army might not be the answer, he could be doing something worthy as he figured out what the answer was. 

“I _will_ miss you, you know,” he said, leaning against the dresser, looking at Clara where she sat on the edge of his bed while she watched him finish packing. 

Harry ignored the implied affection.  She loved John in her own way, but she had little room for sentiment when all she wanted to do was get back downstairs to see Clara; they were still newlyweds.

Seeing that he’d already lost her, John sighed and zipped his overnight bag the rest of the way closed.  There wasn’t much he needed to take with him, the Army would supply most of his clothing and he wasn’t much for the ‘necessities’ other soldiers took with them like music and movies.   And he had no current boyfriend, so no photos were stuffed into the pockets.

He and Todd had broken up almost exactly on their 10 month anniversary after he found out that the reason Todd had kept his own flat was because he had used it to host private parties that John wasn’t invited to.  Private parties consisting of Todd and just one other man.  Naked.

It really hadn’t been such a great loss. John had realized he wasn’t in love with him and never would be.  Since Todd there had been the occasional weekend with someone he met through the hospital and another bloke or two he met at the pub, but no one steady.  Maybe he wasn’t meant to have a soul mate.  Not everyone was.

He followed Harry downstairs to see the few people that gathered to send him off- Mum, Clara, and a few co-workers.  This was the extent of his ‘circle’.  After all of his years on earth and they were all he had.  He knew people liked him, he often heard what a great guy he was, but except for going to the pub after a rugby match, he wasn’t one much for socializing

His alarm went off, alerting him it was time to leave.  His cab arrived minutes later.  On the way to the meeting, John thought about the Sherlock Holmes fellow.  He was surprised, he hadn’t thought about him in some time. When he had first started leading the meetings, he had wondered if he would run into Holmes, unable to get the image out of his head of the lovely face that should have been full of life and love, not the ashen color of death.  But he rarely thought of him now, having given up on ever seeing him again.  He no longer wondered if he had turned his life around.  Or whether cocaine had beaten him.

What a waste that would be.

* * *

 

Lestrade leaned over the body lying in the bed.

For once it was a rather decent hour to head out to investigate a possible homicide.  This was what he had done for what felt like a lifetime now, not that he’d have it any other way, but it tended to prevent a normal sleep cycle.  Murder investigations primarily took place in the middle of the night; luckily the anonymous call for this one came at a tidy 7:30 p.m.   After dinner, yes, but well before the stroke of midnight, which felt, no matter how many years he had done this, like an ungodly time of night.

He studied the face on the pillow; it looked peaceful.  No telltale signs of violent trauma.  No apparent signs of poisoning. Everything about the scene, including the position of the body and the undisturbed bedcovers said Natural Death to him.  This man had died in his sleep.  Had to have.

Lestrade spoke to Sherlock, who was busy sweeping through the room, quickly picking up knickknacks and cosmetic boxes and setting them down again, wiping his gloved finger through the dust on the bureau.  “Odd.  It wasn’t the wife who called up and said he was murdered. And anyway,” Lestrade pondered out loud, “who but the wife would know he was dead?”

“Looks like he just died in his sleep.  Looks right serene to me, I can’t imagine someone thought it was murder.  Wouldn’t mind goin’ like that myself someday.”  He almost looked wistful at the thought of leaving the world so quietly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure Detective Inspector.”  Sherlock replied as he knelt on the floor and looked under the bed.  Nothing but dust bunnies (whoever thought dust balls looked like a rabbit was an idiot) and one shoe.  Men’s.  He pulled the shoe out and getting up, dusted himself off.  Examining the shoe and appearing to find nothing distinctive about it, he dropped it back to the floor where it bounced lightly on the heavily padded carpet.

“I did a quick search on the way over in the cab.  Our Mr. Higgins here,” Sherlock said with a nod towards the corpse, “was the President of Higgins Inc., a global household chemical manufacturer that recently laid off 163 workers, reportedly due to the downward turn in the economy.  Yet his personal net worth has been on the increase every month for the last 36 months.  Not the sign of a business in poor health.  I would say there are plenty of people, 163 to be exact, which would wish Mr. Higgins ill will.  ‘Death’ being the most egregious form of that ill will.”

Sherlock walked over to the window and peered through it into the dark night.  The bulb in the lamppost out front had gone out.  Coincidence? He wondered.  He examined the sill and window with his magnifier and after few moments of examination, tucked it back into his pocket, quickly leaving the room without saying a word.

Lestrade watched after him, unbothered by the lack of the courtesy that many might describe as rude.  To be honest, he would take Sherlock any way he was as long as he wasn’t stoned.  Or dead.   And not so long ago one of those scenarios had seemed far too likely.    

In the year since Sherlock’s overdose the consulting detective had cleaned up and resumed working on cases.  To help keep Sherlock from getting bored Lestrade even threw him some private cases to solve that didn’t warrant the involvement of Scotland Yard.   And though Lestrade hated to do it, to be on the safe side he had required Sherlock to go to Narcotics Anonymous for at least a year and made him submit urine samples every week. He knew Sherlock loathed the intrusion of the tests, but he couldn’t risk compromising their cases.  As it was, after it had been discovered Sherlock had been using, Lestrade had flirted with a formal reprimand for allowing Sherlock to join in on cases.

It had taken time and a lot of coaxing, but Sherlock had eventually regained the weight he had lost, returning him to his usual lean, healthy physique. If at all possible, he appeared more vigorous and alert than he had before he had started his downward spiral.  Lestrade was pleased with, and not just a little bit proud of, the progress Sherlock had made. 

After about 15 minutes, during which Lestrade questioned the distraught wife further about her evening activities and oversaw Anderson’s investigation, Sherlock strode back into the house carrying long plastic tubing about 3 inches in diameter.  His face was flushed from the brisk early summer air and the excitement in his eyes told Lestrade this was an item of importance. 

“Mr. Higgins was murdered and his wife was the one who carried it out,” Sherlock announced, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Mrs. Higgins, a diminutive woman about 50 years in age, gasped at the accusation, bringing her handkerchief up to dab her eyes as a fresh round of tears erupted from them.

Lestrade felt strongly that even _had_ Higgins been murdered, something he had yet to be convinced of, it was not his wife who had committed the act. There was no evidence of murder and she had been home with him all evening.  Besides it was the rare person who could act out such grief on demand. Feeling torn between his belief that Mrs. Higgins was innocent and the great faith he held in Sherlock’s deductions, experience told him to never place his money on anyone but the Consulting Detective. 

“Why don’t you lead us through it, Sherlock,” he said, nodding to the detective.

Even Anderson, ever the skeptic, poked his head around the corner as he paused in his pursuit of fingerprints to hear what Sherlock had to say.  This _had_ to be good, he thought, knowing without a doubt that one day he would be witness to the fall of ‘The Great Sherlock Holmes’.  It would feel so good to say “I told you so”. 

“Mrs. Higgins killed her husband with carbon monoxide poisoning,” Sherlock stated, his eyes dancing in delight at one more time having the opportunity to showcase his deductive prowess.  _That_ was one thing of which he never got bored.

“Carbon monoxide poisoning?” the DI repeated.  “How do you get that?”

“It seems Mrs. Higgins hasn’t been in the living room reading all evening as she said.  I found this tubing below the window on the driveway.  On the pavement there is still a patch of condensation from one tailpipe.  The other tailpipe had this tube running from it to the window.”

“How do you know it was the Missus?” Lestrade asked, looking at the semi-hysterical woman almost apologetically.  Almost.  His sympathy for her loss was waning.

“If she had been in the house whilst it happened, she would either be dead, like her husband, or dizzy and vomiting from the poison.  But she has none of the symptoms.”  He strode over to the window, motioning for Lestrade to follow along. 

Taking out his pocket knife, he scraped a small amount of gummy material off the sill, careful to keep his coat from touching the offending substance.  “Duct tape residue, where she taped the tube to the window.  I presume somewhere in the house is a piece of fabric or cardboard with this residue on it.  She would have had to cover the rest of the open window with some kind of barrier to keep the fresh air from blowing in, which would have defeated her purpose.” 

Just at that moment, the alarm on Sherlock’s mobile set off.  A small scowl passed over his face and pulling it out of his pocket, he turned the alarm off.

“You’re more than capable of taking over from here," he said, "but I would check Mrs. Higgins’ hands for tape residue or oil; it’s not easy to remove gum residue without using oil, most likely olive or canola.  That will help give you evidence you need to help prove she is her husband’s murderer.”

As Sherlock left the flat, he could hear Mrs. Higgins start to rant about the ‘little tart’ her husband had been seeing on the sly.  He tuned her out, uninterested in the details of the ‘why’s’ behind the man’s murder.  Though he could have told her it was the ‘little tart’ who had placed the anonymous call when her lover didn’t show up at the appointed time.

* * *

 

Dressed in corduroys, loafers, and a hoodie that shielded his face, Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets.  He sat in the back row of chairs in the small room at the community hall.

The better to observe.  The easier to be ignored.

It really was so, _so_ very tedious to sit and listen to these self-indulgent simpletons talk about semi-absent fathers that ignored them and mums whose jobs took them outside the home leaving little time to nurture them ‘properly’.  If it weren’t for the poor parenting, they wouldn’t be here.  Blah blah.

Sherlock’s mind wandered.  He had thought that coming to these meetings might not be a total waste of time, after all, he could pass the time by estimating the number of them that would lie about their failure to stay off their drug of choice since the last meeting or determine who had been the most recent to have engaged in adultery.  But they were all so deducible, so transparent, that it wasn’t remotely the challenge he had hoped it would be.  What a pathetic lot. 

And tonight not even the group leader had showed up.  Now just what did that have to say about the value of the people in the room when the one person that was to care about their futures hadn’t bothered to attend?  Not that it mattered to him…but all the same. 

Midway through the third speaker, a tall bird-like woman with a beak for a nose, the door of the small hall opened and in rushed a small sandy-haired man who looked to be in his early to mid-thirties.  Sherlock hadn’t seen him at any of the meetings before.  A recent convert, perhaps?  Perhaps his family had held an intervention forcing him to come?  He didn’t look as though he had had any drug addictions, his skin was healthy, his eyes, though a little on the baggy side, were clear.  His coordination not showing any of the hesitancies or tics an addict usually had. 

The man hurried over to the leader’s chair and sat down.

Aahhh.  A new leader, then.

Waiting until Bird Woman finished, the leader thanked her and stood.

“Good evening, everyone.  So sorry to be late, the cab had a flat tire on the way over.  My name is John Watson and I’m your group leader this evening; Jim’s baby, which I’m sure you all know about, is coming tonight.  So where were we, then?”  He looked around the room expectantly, his pleasant face open and alert.

Over the next couple of hours, while the attendees one by one got up in front and shared their successes and failures, Sherlock managed to tune out most of what was said, instead concentrating on the case he had left in Lestrade’s hands.  He just hoped Anderson didn’t interfere enough to compromise their investigation.

Alternately googling on his mobile and staring sightless at the wall while he processed in his head the data he had found, Sherlock suddenly became aware that it had gotten quiet.  That there were now 17 pairs of eyes looking his way.  16 pairs of eyes that ranged from curious to apathetic to impatient.  And one pair of amiable eyes that looked at him with no expectation, no sense of urgency, just kind invitation. John Watson’s.

John looked at him, waiting patiently as he, seemingly for a second time, offered Sherlock the opportunity to speak.  “Is there anything you wanted to offer tonight?  You don’t have to, you know, but if you do, you’re welcome to.”

From the shield of his hood, Sherlock was able to see the sincerity in his eyes that was so seldom seen at these meetings.  Pushing his hood to his shoulders, he uttered one unmistakable word. “No.”

When he lowered his hood he saw an almost imperceptible twinge in the man’s eyes, a faint startle of recognition.  John’s mouth parted as if to say something, then closed quickly as if he had changed his mind.

John looked at Sherlock closely for a few moments, then looked away; he didn’t want Sherlock to know he recognized him.  Didn’t want him to feel indignity in knowing that he had seen him on the night he overdosed.  But Jesus Christ.  John knew he would never forget those cheekbones, they were unmistakable.  He was struck by Sherlock’s voice; he hadn’t heard it that night and found he was mesmerized by the rich tone in just that one small word.

Regrouping, John said, “alright then, no worries.” He smiled at Sherlock, letting him know that it was fine, all fine, if he didn’t want to talk.   Turning his attention back to the others in the room, he called the meeting to an end.

As John turned to leave, thinking everyone had left, he saw Sherlock still sitting there, watching him.  It didn’t occur to him to be afraid; he instinctively knew he was meant no harm.

Tilting his head, John looked at Sherlock and studied him.  Why was he still here? 

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?  Something you didn’t want to share with the group?”

“How do you know me?” Sherlock asked with narrowed eyes, feeling compelled to be near this man at least a few minutes more.  “Have we met before?”

John considered his response.  While he didn’t want to embarrass Sherlock, he always found it a good practice to be honest with addicts of any sort.  One common issue with people with any type of dependency was a history of mistrust, and they were more adept than most at deciphering when someone was not being forthright with them.

“Yes.  Yes, I have seen you before,” he said, meeting Sherlock’s eyes straight on.  “A year ago you were in my A&E after suffering a cocaine overdose.  My shift ended before you regained consciousness.”  He appraised the clarity of Sherlock’s eyes.  Clarity was an understatement.  There was an intensity in the extraordinary blue eyes that was almost unsettling.  He felt that with one look Sherlock knew everything about him.

“You were the doctor that tended to me when I came in?” Sherlock’s deep voice, though not loud, carried in the small room, the articulation in his speech matching John’s previous perception of a well-bred young man.

“Yes, I was.  It was a difficult night for you and I have to say I’m glad to see you’re doing better.” He waited expectantly; it appeared as though Sherlock had something more to say.

Something unnamable inside Sherlock told him he didn’t want to lose proximity with this unassuming man.  Not just yet. There was something… something about his very presence that put him at ease in a way he had never been before.  He wanted to feel that ease just a little bit longer.

He couldn’t stop himself from blurting out (and he never _blurted),_ “Do you have time to go for a cup of tea?  There’s a café around the corner that makes marvelous scones; it won’t take long.” 

John could see the cautious hopefulness play out on Sherlock’s face as he waited for his answer.  Smiling warmly, he said, “That sounds lovely, but I have to get home.” 

He was surprised by the flash of deep disappointment that crossed Sherlock’s face when he declined.  Surely it couldn’t matter that much to him if they didn’t go for tea?  But John knew he shouldn’t be surprised, the regret he felt that he couldn’t spend more time with Sherlock was far greater than it should have been in these circumstances.  He couldn’t explain it, but it was as though he was passing on an opportunity that came just once in a lifetime.  One that would change his whole life.  Ridiculous.

John licked his lips, hesitant to say anything given the very real possibility that he might not come back from the war.  But against his better judgment he said, “I would really, uhm, would really like spend some time with you, but I have to leave early in the morning for an extended period of time.  Would it be alright if I give you a ring when I get back?”

It was now John’s turn to wonder if he’d done the wrong thing, if he was foolish in allowing himself to hope that Sherlock would say ‘yes’.   But there was nothing more he would like than to get to know this man that held an inexplicable fascination for him.

He felt more then saw the blue eyes on him as Sherlock considered his response.  What the hell was taking him so long?  It really wasn’t that complicated…

“There is nothing I would like more,” Sherlock said, having taken his time answering to allow his heartbeat to slow to a more normal rhythm.

“There is nothing I would like more,” he repeated softly for good measure, certain the look in his own eyes matched the pleasure of the deep blue eyes looking back at him.

 

A look that would have quickly disappeared had he known it would be two long years until he once again saw John Watson.


	3. June 20 ~ Year Three

Meeting John had been a surprise.  Not that actually meeting him was a surprise, for most days he was around people he didn’t know.  No, it was that Sherlock had taken an immediate liking to someone.  That rarely happened.  Wrong.  That _never_ happened. 

Never before had he met someone who within minutes put him at ease, that didn’t have that wary look about them that said there was something a bit off about him.  No, John had been warm and inviting and there had not been a thing about him that said that Sherlock was not okay.  Sherlock had seen it in his eyes, in the way he held himself, in the softness about his mouth. 

Sherlock had known within minutes that he wanted more.  More of John.  More of this strange man, that oddly, he had immediately felt he knew.

And when John had said that he was going away for a while Sherlock had felt deflated, had felt an almost immediate sense of loss.  For something he had never had.  For something he had ever even thought about wanting.  A friend.

As the months since they had met passed by, he thought less and less about John, attributing their meeting to a one off.  John had said he would be gone for an ‘extended period’, but who went away for that long when they had a stable job?  Perhaps he had just said that to put Sherlock off, maybe he hadn’t wanted to get together after all. 

Sherlock decided it was time to purposely put John out of his mind; it wasn’t useful to be thinking about someone he very likely would not see again.

* * *

 

[John.H.Watson@army.mod.uk](mailto:John.H.Watson@army.mod.uk)

Sherlock looked again at the address in his spam folder.  It _looked_ like a valid address, but he didn’t know any Johns.  Searching his memory, when the realization came to him that it was  John, he stiffened in surprise.  ‘My name is John Watson’, the NA leader had said. 

But why was it an Army address?  John wasn’t in the Army; he was a doctor at St. Bart’s.  Oh.  He had said he would be gone for an extended period of time and going into the army would fit that description. 

He hesitated, a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty causing him to pause.  His fingers poised over the keyboard, he jabbed at the laptop’s pad, quickly opening the email before he could change his mind.

_Sherlock,_

_Bit of a surprise, this, eh?  I hope you don’t mind me emailing, I found your address on your blog.  243 types of tobacco ash, sounds interesting._

Was John mocking him?  It was so hard to tell in an email. 

_So many times I’ve started to email you. The truth is I’m in Afghanistan.  I enlisted in the Army to offer my medical services, a decision that, though it has turned my life upside down, I don’t regret for a moment.  I can’t say I’ve ever felt so alive.  The people of this country, the non-Taliban people anyway, deserve all the help we can give them.  I didn’t tell you I was going because, I guess, I didn’t want to put a pall on the moment._

_I’ve thought about you a lot since that night and I want to kick myself for not going to have tea with you.  I know we can’t go now, but I’m hoping, perhaps, you might just want to correspond a little?  It’s not the same as in person, but, we could get to know each other some._

_No pressure.  If you don’t want to, that’s fine.  I hope you are well._

_John_

Sherlock read the email through several times.  He had put John purposely out of his mind and he didn’t know if he wanted to let him back in.  Didn’t know if he wanted to open himself up to more disappointment.

He would have to give this some thought.  Sherlock powered down the machine and sat there for several minutes, trying to pull up the memory of John’s face, the open smile.  Remember the way he had felt when he had been with John.  As though he had been in the presence of someone who had actually wanted to be near him.

Someone he had wanted to be near.

* * *

 

For two weeks he read the email at least once a day. Each day the urge, the need, to respond grew stronger, until one day he knew he could not _not_ email John.  Until one day he knew he had been deceiving himself in thinking he could possibly not want to write to this man who was such an anomaly in his life.  A potential friend. 

**_John,_ **

**_Why do you find tobacco ash fascinating?  As a doctor, I have no doubt you have a scientific background, but_** **_I cannot imagine it would be remotely of use to you in the medical field, unless perhaps you need to determine what kind of smoking device was the cause of a patient’s cancer.  Though I would find that to be an interesting endeavor, it is not the purpose of my experiments._**

**_I am well,_ **

**_SH_ **

A full day did not go by before Sherlock received another email.  This time, he was not surprised by it, but anxiously awaited it.  He didn’t know how much he had looked forward to it until it came.  Until he felt his relief that it had arrived.

_Hey!  There you are!  I wouldn’t have blamed you if you brushed me off, it has been_ _an awfully long while since we met, but I’m glad you didn’t.  It’s good to have someone to talk to from home.  There’s not a lack of company over here, I’ve met a lot of great guys and women, but sometimes I get tired of talking to people who, like me, are always talking about home and how much they miss it.  I want to talk to someone normal.  Someone who lives an ordinary civilian life, goes to work, goes to the grocery store, maybe goes to the pub.  What I wouldn’t give for a good Scottish ale._

_You asked about the tobacco ash.  No, I don’t study it.  I just found it fascinating that anyone would even know there are that many and what you might use that information for.  What do_ _you use that information for?  You know, come to think of it, I remember that the gentleman who brought you into the A &E (I hope you don’t mind that I bring that up) said you are a ‘consulting detective’; I think that’s what he said, anyway.  Just what is that?_

This time Sherlock wasted no time emailing John back.  He liked that John was interested in his work, that he thought he was ‘normal’, not knowing that he subconsciously wondered just how long that opinion would last.

Over the next few weeks a pattern of communication developed that Sherlock found to be easy to engage in, despite his preference for texting.  He liked talking to John, liked that John never seem to get bored talking to him and even if he didn’t understand what Sherlock was talking about he would ask questions and never hint that what Sherlock had to say was odd or annoying.  John was never anything but kind and interesting.

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for John to realize that in some respects Sherlock was a genius.  He would get long emails about cases Sherlock was working on, great care taken in recording all the details.  Once in a while he would even be asked his opinion, only to be told summarily his answer was incorrect, but he wasn’t offended.  He didn’t think Sherlock was being unkind, he was getting it that Sherlock might not be as socially advanced as most people he knew.  He found Sherlock fascinating and that was enough for him. 

In other ways John found Sherlock to be positively medieval.  How could someone _not_  know what Skype was?!

_You’re putting me on!  You don’t know what Skype is?!_

**_Tell me just why I would need to use it?_ **

_You can use it with ME so I can watch the wheels in that genius brain of yours turn while you talk.  What do you think, want to give it a go?_

When Sherlock agreed to try Skyping ( ** _I don’t see why we need to watch each other while we type, I can read just fine._** _Because, you idiot, it isn’t for watching each other type, it’s so we can TALK.  You know, that thing you do with your mouth when noise comes out?  As much as you can put in an email I can only imagine how fast you can talk.  Jesus.)_ , John emailed him instructions and after several attempts, during which he was unable to see Sherlock vex and mutter with annoyance, they were finally able to see the faces they had been talking to anonymously for far too long. 

When he saw Sherlock on his screen, to put the face he remembered with the brain he was getting to know, John sucked in his breath.  He remembered Sherlock was beautiful, but had thought that his brain had at some point been fried by the desert heat…no one could be that gorgeous.  But no, his memory had not played tricks on him, Sherlock was every bit the image of perfection he recalled. 

He saw Sherlock practically press his nose up to the screen, peering at it as though John was mere inches away from him.

”Are you alright?”  Sherlock asked the computer.  “Despite the tan you have from being in the sun so much, you look oddly peaked.”  He looked confused by what he was seeing.

John coughed.  “Uh, fine.  I’m just fine.”  He cleared his throat and rebooted his brain. 

He had met Sherlock only twice in person: once when he was brought unconscious to the A&E and the other time for the few minutes at the end of the NA meeting. In this third meeting, on Skype, he was not all prepared for the whirlwind that was his new friend.  It was one thing to read Sherlock’s words on the computer screen, but to see him speak those words took some adjusting.  And he couldn’t say it was an unpleasant adjustment.  The rapid fire speech (he’d been right about that), the eyes that told him just as much as the spoken words did.  And the hands.  My god, he thought, the hands acted as punctuation to whatever the detective was saying; they practically flapped when he was agitated, flexed when he was trying to choose just the right word, which he didn’t often have to search for like most normal human beings, and they would caress his mouth when he was pensive. 

There was a sense of purpose John found in Afghanistan from the opportunity to help both his fellow soldiers and innocent civilians, giving him something beyond what he had found working at the hospital, but his time with Sherlock gave him a sense of home, of normal friendship that he sorely needed.  On the days they couldn’t meet John counted the hours until they would be back in each other’s sight, anxious to get back to his computer to spend time with this man that was quickly becoming the most important part of his world. 

“How long did you sign up for?  How long until you come back to London?”  Sherlock asked one day, some time after they started talking.

Even though John had figured out that Sherlock was not a sentimental man, had come to know that friendship did not hold a high priority in the solitary man’s life, he understood that for Sherlock this was the closest he would come to saying that he wanted John to come home.  Wanted to spend time with him in person.

“I signed up for two years,” he replied, for the first time feeling the heavy weight of remaining abroad for another year.  It might as well have been a lifetime.

Sherlock rubbed his lips, pondering, his only response a thoughtful “Hmmm”. 

Unsure what that meant, John sat at his computer, a wave of melancholy washing over him. 

“It may be a few days until I’m back on, they're expecting a black out and all unnecessary electrical use will be prohibited.”  John didn’t know why he was going to ask, he’d never before felt the need to be reassured Sherlock would be there when he logged back on.  He always was.  “You’ll be around, won’t you?”

“Of course, I will.  Why wouldn’t I be?”  Sherlock frowned at him.  Why was John asking such an absurd question?

“I don’t know.  I just…” his words fell off, uncomfortable with the thought of sharing the increasing importance of Sherlock’s place in his life.

Sherlock waved his hand at the screen.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, his expression just as dismissive of John’s stupidity as his words.  He saw something cross John’s face, as though there was something more he wanted to say, but Sherlock didn’t ask what it was.

Later, there would be many times John wished he had told Sherlock what he had been thinking.  What he had been feeling.  There would be many times he wished he had told Sherlock that he had fallen in love with him. 

But all he said was, “Okay, talk to you later.”

He turned his computer off and went to bed, sleepless for hours as he lay on the regulation mattress. 

Thinking about the man who made him realize that what his mum said about compatibility was total rubbish.  He didn’t want to be “happy enough”.

He wanted Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock slowly smoothed his finger back and forth across his lower lip as he contemplated the laptop’s screen.  Checking his email for the fifth time in the last hour he found, as he had for weeks now, there was no email from John, no Skype request.  And the longer it was the more compulsive he became at looking for a message from his friend.  It wasn’t unusual for days to go by without hearing from the doctor, but it had never before been this long and Sherlock was becoming restless.  He didn’t like having questions that he didn’t have the answer to.  He especially didn’t like questions he felt he _couldn’t_ find the answer to.  Had he said or done something to drive John away?  Had something…happened to John?   

The latter possibility was one he didn’t want to think about.  One he _wouldn’t_   think about. 

Unless there was no other option. 

* * *

 

There was little in life Sherlock detested more than reaching out for help, especially from his overbearing brother.   But there was nothing to be done about it; in the weeks since he had heard from John he had exhausted all other resources in his attempt to find out why he was silent.  And he had to know.  Was John well?  Was John safe?  

He couldn’t bear the uncertainty any longer.

He rang Mycroft. 

“What now, Sherlock?”  Mycroft sighed, the weariness he felt from being put out one more time coming through clearly over the phone.  It wasn’t often his brother reached out to him, but whatever it was he needed was sure to be something he should be able to handle for himself.  Mycroft was quite aware of Sherlock’s brilliance in many things, but he was also well aware common sense was not one of them.  

For once Sherlock was at a loss for a biting reply; he couldn’t summon his customary disdainful rebellion.  For once Sherlock was humbled. This was too important to go about antagonizing his brother.

Two hours later Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s flat, the first time in almost a year.  He had stopped by a few times after Sherlock’s flirtation with death to see that he had what he needed, to see for himself that his brother no longer lived in squalor and was taking adequate care of himself.  Since then, on the rare occasions they did need to meet, they did so in the stale air of the Diogenes Club. 

“I need your help, Mycroft,” Sherlock stated simply, looking Mycroft in the eye. 

Ready with a cutting remark, Mycroft let it die in his throat.  His head cocked to the side, he looked at his brother, for once unwilling to respond with sharp words.  For before him was a man he could see was in true need, a look that made Mycroft uncomfortable; he wasn’t used to a Sherlock that was not ready to challenge even the most innocuous comment.  

“What is it?” 

“I have a friend…” Sherlock paused, waiting for the caustic comment sure to be said.  Surprisingly, none was forthcoming.  He continued.

“His name is John Watson and he’s a Captain in the Army, stationed in Afghanistan.”  Rushing his words he told Mycroft how he and John had been corresponding and that it had been weeks since he had heard from him.  He was concerned that something had happened to him and he couldn’t find any information on the internet.  Might Mycroft use his connections to find out where John was? 

Sherlock knew it would be painful if it was merely a case of John not wanting to speak with him anymore, but he could live with that.  The only thing that mattered was that John was safe.

* * *

 

Pacing his living room, Sherlock stopped in front of the mantle and stared at the skull sitting there; it was a souvenir from his first murder investigation when he was just 10 years old.  Though he was a clever and precocious child, adults dismissed his involvement in solving the case, putting it down to his having overheard evidence discussed by the detectives assigned to the case.  Out of spite for the insult, for it had been he who had supplied the key evidence, he stole the decomposed head of the victim that eventually became The Skull and kept it with him ever since to remind himself of his first success. 

He had never personified his trophy, even to Sherlock it seemed too macabre to call it by the victim’s name and he had never found it necessary to assign it one.  Despite its lack of functionality, it really was no different to him than any piece of furniture in the flat. 

Not until now, not until he needed someone to talk to about his missing friend.

* * *

 

Sherlock couldn’t imagine why, with Mycroft’s connections, it took him three days to return with information.  Three days that he paced the flat and talked to the skull and walked the streets of London deep in the night.  Three days that he ignored Lestrade’s phone calls and didn’t once call anyone an ‘idiot’. 

On the third day after Mycroft had sat at his kitchen table and said he would help however he could, the knock on the door told Sherlock that Mycroft was there.  There with an answer.

As soon as he opened the door and saw his brother, Sherlock knew.

Knew that John was dead. 

Standing at the open door, Sherlock blocked Mycroft’s entrance, not out of obstinacy or contrariness, but because he didn’t have the presence of mind to move. 

“May I come in?” Mycroft asked, his shoulders not held quite as tightly as usual and his voice softened in an uncharacteristic offer of sympathy.

“What good will that do?”  Sherlock snapped, his eyes burning through his brother.  He knew it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault that he wouldn’t see John again, but he didn’t know what it would help for him to come in to the flat.

“I’ve brought…something.”

For the first time Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was holding a canvas bag by its straps, the bottom sagging with the weight of whatever it held.  It wasn’t an overly large bag, but large enough to be holding something of importance.

Mycroft stood at the door patiently, watching as Sherlock come to the conclusion that it might be best not to carry on his private affairs in the hallway. 

Wordlessly, the detective moved from the doorway, leaving it open as he walked over and sat down in the leather armchair near the window.  He couldn’t bring himself to look at Mycroft, couldn’t bear to see the pity that looked so out of place on his brother’s face.

Seating himself in a chair near his brother’s and setting the canvas bag onto the floor beside him, Mycroft watched Sherlock blanch as the bag fell over onto its side and a boot fell halfway out.  An Army boot.  Watched as Sherlock quickly looked away and lifted his chin in defiance of the proof of what he had seen in Mycroft’s eyes when he answered the door.

Mycroft cleared his throat.  As many difficult things as he dealt with on a daily basis at work, it was never personal…it never involved the brother he had helped raise into adulthood.  This would not be easy.

“I can see you have deduced the worst part of what I have to tell you…your Dr. Watson has perished.”  Mycroft paused to let Sherlock fully register the statement before continuing.

Devoid of emotion, Mycroft recited the facts.  “10 days ago he went out into the field on a rescue mission.  It isn’t, wasn’t, his usual assignment, but there were severe injuries suffered from a detonated land mine and they needed someone with his skill set to attend to the wounded as they were brought back in.  When he reached the temporary camp, it was ambushed by rebel fighters who then killed 5 of the soldiers and captured the remaining 4, including Dr. Watson.  Several days later the uniforms of the four were returned to base by a local woman who had been paid ten American dollars, no questions asked.” 

Sherlock sat there listening to the words that, like bricks, built his wall back up around him, the wall that had been torn down by the small blond man so expertly, so effortlessly.  With dark eyes darting back and forth, he sat there thinking.  Wondering where the flaw was in Mycroft’s account, the loophole that meant John had survived. 

Finally turning to face Mycroft, he studied his expression, searching for any sign of optimism.  Seeing none, he still felt the need to challenge the assumption that a bodiless uniform could mean nothing other than death. 

“Perhaps it was a warning for the British unit to stay away; when they retreat they’ll release John.  Maybe he’ll be injured, but able to come home.”  Any other possibility was incomprehensible to Sherlock.

It pained Mycroft to hear the hope in his brother’s voice, knowing without a doubt it was unsubstantiated.

“There were photographs, Sherlock.”  Mycroft had viewed them but had resolved not show them to Sherlock, leaving them with the authorities.  If asked he would refuse to describe them; they were so disturbing he wished he had not seen them himself. 

“Photoshopped?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Mistaken identity?  Sherlock was remembering the incident the year before when the Ministry of Defense misidentified a soldier killed in action, only to find out they had made an error.  The family’s lawsuit was just now going to court. 

“I’m sorry, no.  They were very thorough in their investigation, careful not to cause the wrong family unnecessary grief.”  Mycroft sat silently as Sherlock processed the additional information, as he came to the very sobering realization that he would not see his friend again. 

Gesturing toward the canvas bag that neither man had explicitly acknowledged, Mycroft said gently, “His sister and mother have been notified of his death.  What personal belongings he had with him have been sent to them, but recently he sent word to his sister that if something happened to him he wanted you to have his uniform.  He told her that enlisting in the Army was the most important thing he had ever done and that if he died over there he wanted you to have the best part of him.”

With nothing more to be said and little he could do, Mycroft stood, silently offering comfort that he wouldn’t know how to express had Sherlock been willing to accept it.

* * *

 

With Mycroft gone, Sherlock sat motionless, trying to absorb what he had heard.  He finally reached over to the bag and opened it, taking out the boots and the uniform that, though obviously recently laundered, was still stained with blood.  At the bottom of the bag was a small padded envelope.  Opening it he found a ball chain necklace from which hung a set of dog tags.

Cpt. John H. Watson. 

So, it was true, then, he thought, feeling the implication of the soldier-less dog tags.  They forced him to remove any remaining doubt that Mycroft would have brought him such news without having had absolute certainty the intelligence was correct. 

He remained sitting in the chair for hours, staring at nothing.  Feeling nothing.  Holding the metal tags so tightly they pierced his skin, creating a wound that would soon turn into a scar he would carry with him for life.  


	4. June 20 ~ Year 4 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have broken Year 4 into two parts, there was far too much content to fit it into one. My little brain started to hurt!

A soft mist fell on John as he sat along the promenade between Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, but he took no notice of that or anything else around him.  Most sitting there on a temperate June night, on the cusp between spring and summer, would have been enchanted by the pink and blue tinted lights on the bridge.  Would have found the lighted buildings along the skyline comforting, their presence a reminder of the indomitable spirit of London.  A city many centuries old that was the perfect blend of old and new.  A city that gave testimony to the idea that not all living things need have a pulse. 

But John Watson did not see any of that.  His mind was on his future.  Or truth be told, on if there would indeed be one.  He had been back in London now for eight months, eight months of trying figure out how to insert himself back into a life that had become foreign to him.

Though John had lived in London all his life, it no longer felt like home; while away he had lost everything that meant anything to him.  As he predicted, his sister had mismanaged his money and he now had no home, the mortgage payments she sent in being too small and irregular to convince the bankers they would recoup their money in anything resembling a timely fashion.  Never a healthy woman, his mum had finally succumbed to a stroke after one too many cigarettes and bacon rashers.  And the one thing that he had always thought he could fall back on, his license to practice medicine, was next to useless due to the memory loss he suffered from injuries he had sustained while a POW. 

Never one to indulge in self-pity before he went to war, John now found himself in a daily struggle with it.

He had gone to Afghanistan with the best of intentions while knowing full well the risk he took was one that could mean losing his life. He had never considered the possibility there could be anything worse.  He had been wrong.  He had found that birth and death were not the only extremes that could mark a life’s existence.

He couldn’t help letting out a sob as he recalled the horrors of being captured by the sadists who called themselves patriots.  Almost every night he relived those five days in his nightmares.  And cruelly, far too often the memories came to him in his waking hours, always catching him off guard in their vividness.  He could almost feel the kicks to his head, the deep cuts to his legs that drew enough blood he was surprised he hadn’t bled to death, the waterboarding (thank you Guantanamo Bay for _that_ bit of inspiration), all with the intent of eliciting information he did not have.  He had been so severely beaten they had thought he was dead, leaving him behind as they moved camp.

On reflection, John wasn’t so sure that death might not have been a blessing.  After several days in hospital at Camp Bastion where he was stabilized, he was then flown to Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham for a painful convalescence. 

His body had slowly mended over the three months he was there, but there had been nothing they could do for his frame of mind. He had met with the in-house psychiatrist every week, the two fighting a battle over his relentless apathy and the underlying depression…the psychiatrist calm and unaffected, John unable to see the point as she gave him tools to cope with a world that was somehow passing him by.  Gave him drugs that took away the nightmares but left him even more apathetic, drugs he took to hiding under his tongue until the meds nurse was gone, when they were then flushed down the sink. 

After three months he had been released to transitional housing in London.  Physically well enough to no longer require inpatient care, it was felt he needed to be monitored due to his unstable emotional state; he clearly was a suicide risk.  

Sitting at the bank of the Thames he contemplated a future he couldn’t envision.  Soon he would have to move out of the Army housing and he had no desire to search the ‘flatmate wanted’ ads.  Besides, who would want him for a flatmate?

Not for the first time he wondered why he didn’t take his gun out of his bedside drawer and put it to his temple.

He suspected it was only because it would be too much trouble to do so. 

* * *

 

Well past tour hours, the bright lights illuminating the Tower of London gave the almost non-stop stream of passersby outside the wall the opportunity to view the medieval structure with ease despite the darkness of the night.  Erected more than a millennium ago, it had served England well.  Originally its sole purpose was to house the royals, but over the centuries it became a prison, a treasury, and a public records office amongst many other functions, until one day in the mid-twentieth century it was retired into the tourist trade.  And now it seemed no matter the time of day or night, no matter the day of year, there were camera lenses aimed at the ancient building eager to record the same images millions of cameras had before.  Images meant to be shared with friends and family as if they were a unique treasure that had just been discovered.   

The lone man walking along the pavement outside the stone walls was not a tourist. He straggled behind a small group of couples, pausing now and then to ogle the historic site when they did, attempting to appear as though it was nothing more than a coincidence.  The camera dangling from the strap around his neck was brought to his eye now and then as he pretended to snap photos, twisting the lens to get just the right shot.

One person in the group, a boyish-looking man in his mid-thirties, his arm dangling around a petite woman who was starting to hobble slightly after a day of walking in ill-advised high heels, kept eyeing the tall, dark haired man.  Every time he looked back it felt as though the intense blue eyes had just shifted away from his direction, but he couldn’t quite be sure; he couldn’t get a decent glimpse of his face since every time he thought he was going to finally get a good view, that damn camera went up, obscuring his face just enough to make identification difficult. 

The young man was nervous, as he should be.  Earlier in the day he had mugged an elderly woman withdrawing money from the bank machine.  Just as she had been putting her money into her clutch, he had grabbed it, in the struggle sending the frail woman to the ground.  As he rounded the corner of a building at breakneck speed he had literally run into a bloke.  After toppling them both to the pavement he picked himself up and ran, just barely making it through a flat building’s automatic locking door before it resolutely clicked behind him.  He had caught a look at the man pounding on the door to get his attention, a man that looked remarkably like the tourist that trailed behind them.

He kept looking back warily, tuning out the chatter of his friends.  He really needn’t be so concerned he thought, it wasn’t as though anything could be proved.  The clutch was long gone and he had made sure not to be caught on camera by the bank’s security system.  Still…

One more look and he knew for sure it was the face he had seen earlier.  No one could forget eyes like that, they were almost catlike.  Penetrating and aware.

He ran.

Sherlock sped after him in long strides, ripping the strap from his neck and letting the camera fall to the ground with a clatter.   

With no hesitation the mugger ran down the steps to the promenade beneath the bridge.  Seeing Sherlock gaining ground on him and knowing it was mere moments before the detective reached him, he panicked and jumped the rail, landing in the water with a loud splash. 

Sherlock shucked his coat, the weight of it an inconvenience he couldn’t afford, and sailed over the rail into the river.

* * *

 

John heard footsteps pounding towards him, taking little notice since this was a popular path for joggers.  Until he realized that just metres away from him a man jumped into the water below, followed very quickly by another. 

Moving as fast as his uneven gait would let him, he ran to the railing and peered down, barely able to see the two men thrashing in the water.  In the dark it appeared to him that it was not because they were having trouble staying afloat but because one was trying to get ahold of the other to …what?

One man stopped thrashing as the other held on to him, working to keep him afloat, to keep his mouth above water.

Grabbing his mobile, John dialed 999.  “Two men just jumped into the river and I think one might be unconscious,” he said somewhat breathlessly to the dispatcher, proceeding to describe what little he had seen. 

A wave of adrenaline surged through him, reminding him of the days when he would rush to provide medical attention to injured soldiers and before that, casualties arriving at the A&E.  He couldn’t say the feeling was unwelcome. 

Minutes later, when services came on scene, he returned to the bench and sat down, the pounding of his heart slowing.  His breathing returning to normal.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive.

* * *

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Idiot.

“ _No_ Detective Inspector, I did _not_ push him into the water.  Why would I push him into the water?”  He said indignantly, as though there were no more ludicrous accusation to be made.  “I chased after him because he ran.  He ran because he knew he’d been caught red-handed stealing from a woman withdrawing cash from a bank machine.  See that gentleman over there?  He’s been here the entire time and can vouch for my actions.”  He pointed toward the figure sitting on the nearby bench, the one who had reassured him emergency services were on their way. 

The one who was trying, unsuccessfully, to appear invisible.

Lestrade sighed.  He’d known better than to ask the question, but he’d felt it his duty.  When the police had caught up with the chap’s friends they’d said they watched “that tall fellow, there”, indicating Sherlock, push their friend over the rail.

His palms raised to tell Sherlock to ‘hold on’, he said “Just calm down will ya, I know you didn’t.  As daft as you are I’ve never known you to purposely harm someone.” Not that I wouldn’t put it past you, Lestrade thought to himself.

To placate his agitated friend he added, “But yes, I’ll go talk to him; it wouldn’t hurt any to have corroboration.”  Pulling his notebook and pen out of the pocket of his over coat, he walked over to the man on the bench.  

“Good evening, I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.  If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a statement from you about what you saw happen here.”  He stopped, getting the feeling he’d seen the man somewhere before, somewhere important.  Suddenly it hit him, “You’re a doctor, aren’t you.  Yeh, I think you were the one who saved my friend’s life at the A&E a few years back.”

“No. No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  John shook his head, keeping his face placid, not wanting to give any hint he knew who Lestrade was.  As soon as Lestrade had approached him, he’d known exactly who he was; he was with Sherlock the night of the overdose and that was a conversation John did not want to engage in right now. He already had enough trouble silencing the memory of Sherlock in his head; to hear it spoken out loud might completely undo him. 

Lestrade looked more closely at John.  He knew it was a few years ago and the doctor had probably forgotten, there were so many patients that came and went, but he knew he was right.  “I’m right grateful for all you did, it was a close call with all the cocaine he had in him.  The good news is, he’s been off drugs ever since; in fact, that’s him over there, he’s the one that saved the suspect from drowning,” he said, nodding to where Sherlock hovered at the back of the ambulance.

All of a sudden it was as if John went deaf, he was unable to hear the words that appeared to keep falling out of the Inspector’s mouth.  Sherlock?  Here?  John had difficulty breathing, his mouth pursed, his nostrils flaring slightly in their attempt to take in more air than they could accommodate.  He looked over at the man in the blanket, the tall lanky frame, the unruly hair.  As the man brought his hands up to his chin his fingers steepled, his shoulders hunched just so.  

Dear fucking Christ, it was Sherlock.

“Dr. Watson!  That’s it!”

John’s head snapped toward Lestrade at the sound of his name.

Lestrade turned away from John and called out, “Hey, Sherlock!  Come over here!”  He shook his head, marveling at the coincidence of the doctor being at just the right place _twice_. 

“No, Inspector,” John said, his voice low with warning; he did not want Lestrade summoning Sherlock over.  He needed to get away.  Now.  Sherlock couldn’t see him like this.  Couldn’t see that he had become a shadow of the man he used to be. 

Every day John lived with the memory of the hours he had spent online with Sherlock, hours that he had fallen irrevocably in love, hoping that when he got home they might pursue a relationship.  But Sherlock was strong and healthy; John knew he wouldn’t want a man that walked with a limp and sometimes couldn’t remember what day of the month it was.  No, he had decided the best thing to do would be to stay as far away from Sherlock Holmes as he could.  His mistake was in thinking London was a big enough city to do so.

The warning to keep Sherlock from coming over was lost on Lestrade. 

“Com’on, don’t be so modest.  It’s not everyday someone gets to save the same life twice.  Though if you were around Sherlock any amount of time it’d probably be more often than that; I’ve never known anyone who can get in as many scrapes as he can.  Always seems to come out smelling like a rose, though.”  Lestrade chuckled. 

“What is it Inspector?”  The irritation in Sherlock’s voice as he walked over clearly said ‘this had better be worth my time’. 

The consulting detective looked at the man Lestrade was talking to, for once his razor-sharp mind becoming dulled.  His steps slowed as he tried to comprehend who he saw before him.  He took in a sharp breath.   His heart, normally slow and steady, began to beat at an alarming rate. 

John. 

But John was dead.  

Mycroft had seen the pictures.  And Mycroft was never wrong.

He faltered, unsure of what was happening.  The man he saw looking at him with such guardedness was at the root of everything unusual and extraordinary that had happened to him in the last 3 years.  In his life.

John had kept him from dying from the overdose.  John was the one person he could be himself with without being ridiculed or belittled. The one person he could never seem to get enough of. 

When John died Sherlock knew there would never again be anyone like him in his life.  Should anyone ask, he would not be able to explain the profound affect the appearance, and loss, John had had on him.

Reflexively, his hand sought out the dog tags underneath his soaked shirt.  The tags that, for the last year, had not moved from where they now laid, a tangible reminder of the soldier that had managed to become something to him that no other person had.

Smiling at Sherlock, oblivious to the emotional maelstroms the detective and John were experiencing, Lestrade said, “This here’s Dr. Watson, the attending physician the night you…” Lestrade cut himself off, feeling uncomfortable as he realized this might not be something Sherlock would want reminded of, that this might not be a happy reunion.  After all, they’d never even met.  

John couldn’t stop staring at Sherlock. He tried to turn away, to tear his eyes from the face that had carried him through his darkest days, but just as he did, he saw Sherlock’s legs start to give way.

“Sherlock!”  John cried, jumping up as he saw Sherlock begin to fall.  Lestrade was close enough to catch him, guiding him to the bench to sit down.

“John, you’re here.”  Sherlock whispered, looking at John as if he was seeing a ghost.  Certain he was.

John’s mind spun as they sat Sherlock down.  All these months immune to any feeling but pain, his heart thawed, warmed by the presence of the man he had fallen in love with.  Fallen in love with without ever being able to touch him or be near him.  It was overwhelming and wonderful and confusing all at once.

“Yes, yes I am,” John reassured Sherlock as he saw him shiver.  In the cobwebs of his past he found his calmest doctor’s voice, “We need to have the medics take a look at you; I think you may be going into shock.” 

Sherlock’s shook his head, his voice trembling as he said, “No.” 

“ _Yes,_ ” John asserted, his tone saying he wasn’t going to brook any arguments.

“Good luck with that one,” Greg interjected, knowing that in shock or not, Sherlock was not likely to do something he did not want to do. 

John knew shock was a serious medical condition and didn’t want to get into a battle of wills with Sherlock.  One thing he had come to know about the detective in their months of Skyping was that the man was decidedly stubborn; if he said he didn’t want medical attention then there would be no one allowed near him.  Unless…

John took the folds of the blanket and pulled them more tightly around Sherlock. 

“How about I get you home, hmm?  Get you into some warm clothes.  Do you still live in Regents Place?”

“No, I’m in a new flat on Baker St.  You haven’t seen it.”

John wanted to point out that he hadn’t seen the old one either, but didn’t think it was an important distinction to make at the moment.

John looked up at Lestrade.  “Will you get us a cab, please?”

As Lestrade called for a cab, he watched Sherlock and John; it was his turn to be confused.  These two knew each other?  He had heard Dr. Watson cry out Sherlock’s name even though he had denied being the doctor in the A&E.  He could hear the gentleness in John’s voice as he spoke quietly with Sherlock, the way he lightly, almost lovingly, touched him as he rearranged the blanket.  He could see how Sherlock accepted the care of this quiet man, failing to bristle as he was usually wont to do when a stranger, hell, anyone, got close. 

Yes, these two knew each other.  And quite well it appeared.

 

* * *

 

In the cab on the way to Sherlock’s flat they didn’t talk about what had happened to John, about why he had not sought Sherlock out when he’d come home, about why he had allowed Sherlock to continue to believe he was dead.

John didn’t want to visit that painful past, not right now.  He didn’t want it to taint these precious moments he was sharing with Sherlock.

And Sherlock didn’t want to ask, didn’t need to ask.  He had seen the haunted look in John’s eyes, the limp, the jagged scars at the edge of his hairline and on his jaw, and though he hadn’t seen the pictures Mycroft had spoken of, he could only imagine the horrors John had gone through.   A rage started to build in him that anyone had dared touch this good man in such a way. 

No, they would not talk about any of that right now.

They rode silently through the night, John rubbing Sherlock’s hands to warm them, tucking the ample Belstaff around them. John sharing the makeshift blanket to provide whatever body heat he could to the shivering man beside him.

They were quiet, both of them content to just be there. 

To be there together.

* * *

 

“John!”

Finished looking around the flat, John heard Sherlock shout his name from the bathroom.  ‘Damn it, John!’  He berated himself; he shouldn’t have left Sherlock alone.  The man had nearly drowned and was exhausted; he could be feeling faint and fall in the shower.  John practically ran across the small living room, throwing open the door. 

He could see the outline of Sherlock’s form, standing upright quite steadily, rinsing his hair of shampoo.  But still…  “You alright?” he asked.

Sherlock stilled his hands and cocked his head.

“Of course.”  He sounded bewildered at the question.  Why would he not be alright?  He felt much more like himself now that he had taken a hot shower.

Finished rinsing and turning off the water, “Hand me my towel,” he said.  He didn’t really need John to fetch him the towel, but it had been quiet out in the flat for far too long and there was a tension growing deep inside him, taunting him with the fear that John had left.  Had left without saying goodbye.

John looked at the towel on the edge of the sink.  And looked over at the shower just a few steps away.  Really?  He couldn’t have gotten that himself?  He shook his head; there were certainly a number of things he hadn’t been able to learn about Sherlock over an internet connection.

Trying to pretend he wasn’t mesmerized by the graceful lines of Sherlock’s silhouette showing through the shower curtain, he averted his eyes as he pulled the curtain aside to hand the towel over.

“Uhmm, Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll uhmm, I’ll just go wait outside until you’re done.”

Sherlock soon emerged from the loo, dressed in night-blue silk pyjamas and dressing gown. 

“What have you done?” He asked, looking askance at his living room.  The sofa was now pulled up next to a freshly lit fire; the lone chair that had been next to the fireplace was now situated where the sofa had been.  He had liked the way it had been before just fine.

“It’s going to take you a while to fully warm up and this is the best place in the flat for that, so I decided you should sleep here tonight.  Don’t want you to catch pneumonia.”  John wasn’t offended; he knew Sherlock was particular, but he also knew that Sherlock’s health was more important than where his furniture was placed.

John nodded at the bed of sheets and blankets he had arranged on the sofa, the corner turned down, ready for its occupant. 

Sherlock bit back the rebuke forming in his mouth.  While he was disconcerted by the displacement of his things, he could see from John’s face he was pleased with himself for getting him situated.  His eyes flitted about the room, trying to get used to the new arrangement.  He could live with it for a night.  And the heat of the fire did feel inviting.

“Thank you?”  He managed to say.

He hesitated before finally walking over and sitting down on the sofa, reclining to let John pull the covers over him.  This really wasn’t _all_ that objectionable, he thought. 

Conflicted, John fidgeted.  He didn’t want to leave, but he knew he couldn’t stay.  He knew that despite the joy he felt this evening in seeing Sherlock again, being with Sherlock again, a feeling he thought he was no longer capable of, it was something that could not happen again.  He had absolutely no doubt there was no future for them and he refused to torment himself by being near him again.  If he had to he would leave the city.

Sherlock watched the indecision play out on John’s face, not knowing what caused it, but as he saw John seem to settle on a course of action, he knew it was something that would be unpleasant for him.  He scooted to the back of the sofa and patted the space in front of him, his thin body allowing room for John to sit with him. 

He wasn’t ready for John to leave.  He didn’t think he ever would be.

John saw the pat of the hand, the empty space, the offer that softened Sherlock’s eyes, and couldn’t deny himself.  He wouldn’t leave, not just yet.  He sat on the edge of the sofa and admonished, “Just a few minutes, just until you fall asleep.”

“But I’m not tired.” Sherlock practically pouted.

John chuckled, remembering that at any time day or night that when he would log on to talk to Sherlock the detective would be wide awake.  Any mention John made of him going to bed would be met with the petulance of a small child.

“You’ve had a big night.  You’re exhausted and you need the rest, so close your eyes and go to sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

“But why should I go to sleep if I’m not tired?”  Sherlock couldn’t help but arguing the point, not if it kept John there with him.

“Because, you big sod, if you don’t go to sleep I won’t feel right about leaving.  And if I don’t leave I won’t make curfew and they’ll kick me out.”  Soberly adding, “I can’t afford to lose a place to live right now.”

“I’ll go to sleep on two conditions.”  Sherlock felt vulnerable as he was about to lay his emotions out in the open.  But what he hated even more was not knowing for sure when he would see John again.  If he would see John again.

“One, I get to do this.”  He placed his hand in John’s and twined their fingers together, fearful John would pull away.  Relieved when fingers firmly clasped his own.

Sherlock had never held hands like this with anyone before aside from the girl in year six who, fancying him, had snuck her hand into his as she stood next to him in choir practice.  Her hand had been clumsy and sticky and when it had squeezed his, his stomach had roiled in revulsion.

But holding John’s hand was not like that.  John’s hand was warm and gentle and it settled a feeling in him that made him never want to let it go.  He closed his eyes as the feeling pervaded his body, knowing that this, _this,_ was why people felt they needed to be near someone.

His eyes flew back open; he didn’t want to miss a moment of any chance he had to look at John in the flesh.  After John’s ‘death’ he had found and saved a photo of him, but it was meaningless in comparison to seeing the light flecks of his hair reflected in the soft glow of the fire, the  infinite number of expressions that appeared on the face he found so fascinating.

He told John his second condition.  “You have to promise to not stay away.”

John held his gaze steady, not wanting Sherlock to see this was a condition he could not agree to, would not agree to.  Despite the sense of complete and utter rightness he felt at being with Sherlock, he knew they could not be.  They would never work, not now, not after what had happened to him.

He played for time in order to steel himself to tell a lie Sherlock had to absolutely believe.  “You do know that whether or not I agree to that condition you _will_ at some point fall asleep.  Not even you can stay awake forever.”

“True.  But then you would miss your curfew and would have nowhere to stay and…oh.”  It suddenly dawned on Sherlock that John getting kicked out might not be such a bad idea; there was an extra room in the flat, after all.

John had seen the unused room upstairs and intuitively knew what was going through Sherlock’s mind.  Jesus, this was just getting harder. 

“Alright,” he said, “I promise not to stay away.”  Lying to avoid the argument he knew would come if he told Sherlock what he truly intended. 

“Good.  That’s settled.”  Sherlock smiled, pleased he had gotten his way. 

They held each other’s gaze, no words needing to be said as they told each other there could be no person more important than the other, no moment more important than this one.

Sherlock, content to know that John was there, really _there_ , closed his eyes; the man he had been so devastated to lose was with him and would soon be again. 

For a time John stayed and watched Sherlock as he slept, the hand in his now relaxed in sleep.  He didn’t want to let go.  But he had no choice.

Reluctantly taking his hand from Sherlock’s, he smoothed his thumb along a sharp cheekbone, reminded of when he first saw Sherlock on the hospital gurney so long ago.  Back then he hadn’t known the man that had been near death, had not known that he would fall in love with him.  Had not known that to be without him would be more painful than any injury that could be inflicted upon his body.

Running his fingers through Sherlock’s soft curls, John leaned down and lightly touched his lips to Sherlock’s temple, pressing them there as he squeezed his eyes shut, almost wishing he hadn’t seen Sherlock tonight. 

Knowing it would make it all the harder to live a life without him in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Year 4 will be posted as a separate chapter


	5. June 20 ~ Year 4 Part II

On the face of it, to touch someone seems a very inconsequential act; to lay skin upon skin is nothing other than the meeting of two like biological substances.  Something ordinary.

Or is it?

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, still lying in front of a fire long burned out, instead of rising to start his day, he lied there and thought.  Not about experiments or body parts or serial murderers, but about John.  About touching John.  About the way their fingers had knitted together, the way their palms had pressed against one another.  It was almost as if John was still there with him, so strong was Sherlock’s sense of the warmth and texture of his skin, the way his firm, but gentle grip had molded into his.

It was as if he could still feel John’s pulse.

Not that Sherlock was a total stranger to the touch of another person.  No, he had not gone through these 32 years of his life unscathed by the feel of another body pressed against his.  As a child his mother had soothed his brow when he was sick, had held him to her when he was distressed over one of the many complexities life had to offer.  But there had always been something perfunctory about her ministrations, as if there had been something else she needed to do, somewhere else she had needed to be. 

After he grew into adulthood there had been the infrequent sexual encounters.  Encounters that had been experimental in nature.  Encounters that had been a means to an end.  Encounters that had left him sated physically, but had not touched his heart.  That had not had even the slightest element of tenderness or love about them.

But when Sherlock had held John’s hand, it had reached down to the very core of him.  A core that, until now, he had not even known he possessed.  It made him realize he had a heart that yearned for the existence of another, a heart that needed to be _with_ another.

A heart that needed… John.

* * *

 

For a long 12 long months, John had lived in limbo, an earthly hell where he had swung on an emotional pendulum between life and death.  More often than not, it was the latter.

As he lay in bed after leaving Sherlock’s flat, his attempts to sleep were pushed aside by the feeling of Sherlock’s hand still imprinted onto his.  A hand that for the first time in his life belonged to someone he was in love with.  As John put his hands together, one hand caressed the other in memory of the painfully elegant fingers that had held his, the gentle tentativeness that had wrapped around him.

Just the day before, John had been certain, had _known,_ any chance of true love in his life had passed him by.  He had been in enough relationships without finding someone truly compatible, without finding someone that made all thought of anyone else irrelevant, that he had given up on the thought of finding a lifelong partner.  And now, damaged by the war, he had thought that even if he found that one person, found the perfect mate, they would not want him.  Would not see past the scars, both visible and unseen, to discover the man beneath them.  How could they? 

But when Sherlock had touched him…

When Sherlock had taken his hand in his, had looked past all that John knew he had seen, it caused in him an inner strength he had not experienced since he had been injured.  As if he was the man he used to be.  The man he should be. 

With one small touch Sherlock had begun to do what the doctors and the psychiatrist could not do.  He had begun to restore John’s heart.  

John knew with perfect clarity that there was nothing he wanted, nothing he needed more in this world.  Nothing that would make him more complete.

Nothing and no one other than Sherlock. 

* * *

 

The Skull stared blankly at Sherlock, its eyes fixed on him. It really had no comment on the matter, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from fuming at it. 

“It’s almost noon; why haven’t I heard from him?!” Sherlock stopped pacing to stand in front of The Skull, waiting for an answer he well knew would not be coming.  Hoping for one anyway. 

“Stupid!”  Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration with himself.  “Why didn’t I ask him where he lives?”

He went to his laptop on the desk, unbuttoning his jacket to allow ample room to move.  John had said he was living in Army housing, shouldn’t be too hard to find.

Fifty-five minutes later Sherlock rapped impatiently on the door of flat 512 in the White Chapel Army housing.

Three seconds later he rapped again.  This time harder.  No response.  He looked up and down the hallway, not knowing what he was looking for, but seeing no one, he dropped his arm and headed toward the exit.

* * *

 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock heard his name even before he had gotten more than a few metres from John’s door.

John.

He turned and looked at the man who was making his newly-discovered heart pound in his chest. 

_John._

Standing in the doorway of his flat, John hurriedly finished buttoning his jeans, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.  How in the world he had thought he could ever live without this man he had no idea. 

With Sherlock just standing and staring back at him, John smiled. “Come here you idiot,” his soft voice at odds with his words.

His eyes locking with John’s, Sherlock walked as if hypnotized and followed John into the flat.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, more quietly this time, as he stood looking up at him.  His eyes roamed over the angular face, profoundly grateful that he had not done what he had so often thought to do.  Had he taken his own life how else would he be able to have this moment?  _This_ moment.  With _this_ man…

…that took his breath away.

Sherlock watched John watching him and he couldn’t help it. Reaching out to the hair that was still damp and mussed from a shower, he lightly touched the scar at John’s hairline. His eyes followed his fingers as they traced down to John’s jaw, feeling the raised ridge where a boot heel had met John’s face, saw the faint outline of a smaller scar where the heel had met his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, unable to bear the thought of what John must have gone through.

When he opened his eyes back up, he saw the naked trust in John’s eyes, wondering what he had ever done to earn that trust.  He had not solved one murder for John, had not deduced anything of importance to give to him.  No, he had not done one thing for John Watson.  All he had ever done was be himself.  And somehow, somehow that was enough.  It was quite unbelievable.

Sherlock took John’s hand in his.

The first time John and Sherlock had held each other’s hand, the experience had been tentative.  Warm.  Healing. 

The second time their hands came together, each man had a sense of wholeness.  As if they were meant to be.  Meant to always be.  Together.

Together they walked to John’s bedroom and disrobed, laying down on the bed, lying on their sides so they could soak in the sight of what had so long been missing in their lives.

Sherlock had the need to see, to touch, to inhale every part of John Watson.  Every scar had to be explored, every inch of his body had to be loved with lips and fingers and cheekbones smoothed along the miracle that was John.  On one particularly brutal scar, this one on John’s thigh near his femoral artery, Sherlock paused to give it a lingering kiss.  Silently giving it thanks for healing, knowing it was this wound that had been the most lethal, the one most likely to have taken John from him forever. 

With every touch, every sigh, from Sherlock, John could feel more of his former self resurrected.  Could feel new life breathed into him.  Could feel that not only was it not wrong to be near Sherlock again, but that nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ could be more right.

“John?”  Sherlock pulled the blankets up over them to keep them warm; he could see the goose bumps forming on John’s arms. 

“Hmmm?”  John lied pressed against the warm body next to him, languid and content, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to be lying in bed with Sherlock Holmes.  And they hadn’t even had sex.  Yet.

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip, unsure of how to go about this.  He knew that he was considered to be too frank, too insensitive to the mysteries of the human condition called emotion.  He needed to think about this.

John cradled Sherlock’s face in the palm of his hand, giving a short nod of encouragement for Sherlock to speak.  Why he needed to do this he didn’t know, he had never known the detective to censor anything that came out of that amazing mouth of his. 

Hedging, Sherlock finally asked, “Why didn’t you contact me?  Why did you let me believe you were dead?”  Sherlock had trouble meeting John’s eyes, not sure he wanted to know the answer.  Despite the current intimacy of body against body, he was not sure John truly wanted him.

John’s mouth pursed into an “oh”.  He had known this would be coming; he just hadn’t thought it would come so soon.

Thoughtfully rubbing his thumb up and down the side of Sherlock’s throat, he told him, “It had nothing to do with you.”  Seeing the expressive eyebrows lift in doubt, he waited for Sherlock’s gaze to meet his and looked directly into his eyes, adding firmly, “Nothing.”

When he was sure he had Sherlock’s full attention, John blew out a breath and rolled onto his back.  Throwing an arm over his head he stared at the ceiling.  Though Sherlock hadn’t expressed as much in words, he knew from Sherlock’s strong reaction to finding out he was alive that it had been quite painful for him when he had ‘died’; he deserved an explanation.  John felt Sherlock’s arm rest lightly on him under the covers, giving him the courage to speak.

“That I didn’t come tell you had _nothing_ to do with you.”   He repeated himself one more time to make sure Sherlock got the point.  Rubbing his eyebrow, he knew this was going to be harder than he had imagined.

“I didn’t get ahold of you because I was trying to sort myself out.  It took a long time for my body to heal and it took even longer for my head to heal.  The inside of my head.  Hell, it’s still not totally right.”  John grew silent for a moment while he continued to stare at the ceiling.  

“I thought about you, Sherlock.  I thought about you all the time.  Jesus, sometimes I think you’re the only reason I’m still alive, thinking about the day I would see you again.”

Sherlock watched the struggle on John’s face; there was clearly more John needed to say. 

“But every time I thought about calling you, I just couldn’t do it.  I’m not the man I used to be, Sherlock.  I lost everything I had, even my sanity sometimes, I think.  And I didn’t want you to have a friend that was, well, not what you thought they were.”

“And what did I think you were?”  Sherlock’s deep voice, muted as it was, filled the room.

Taking a deep breath, John said, “Successful, a homeowner, a soldier.  Healthy.”

Sherlock contemplated John’s words, not comprehending what John was trying to tell him.  Just because John had had setbacks was not reason enough to ban him from his life.  And as ignorant as Sherlock could sometimes be, he knew that the things John had lost were not due to recklessness, but because he had given a good part of his life up for a greater cause.   Those things had been lost on behalf of a spirit of nobility.  Misguided, perhaps, in the minds of some, but noble nonetheless.

“That’s what _you_ thought you were.  Those things never factored into why I spent a quarter of my life on Skype,” he said wryly.  “Except for health, they were things you _did,_ they don’t describe what you _were._  The presence or absence of them in no way demonstrates who you are.” 

"And yes, I see that physically you are not what you used to be, but was that reason enough to cast me from your life?”  Sherlock was genuinely perplexed.  What could John have been thinking?

The Adam’s apple in John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.  It should have been explanation enough.  But no-o-o, not for Sherlock.  Not for the man who expected every truth to be revealed, no matter the cost to the person baring themselves.

John lied there and tried to figure out some way to keep Sherlock from knowing the real reason.  Some way to put the bloody man off the scent.  The more he tried to come up with a reason that would satisfy Sherlock, the more frustrated he became when he couldn’t find one. 

“Bollocks!  You really want to know?”  He huffed, turning so he could look at Sherlock, glaring at him accusatorially for forcing him to say what he had had no intention of saying.

Sherlock was startled.  What could be so difficult for John to tell him that it made him so agitated?  Maybe he didn’t really want to know after all, he thought.  But now that he was this close…

“Yes, I do.”  Sherlock peered more closely at John, trying to deduce what was going on in John’s head.  He shook his head.  Nothing came to him.

John sighed in resignation, there really was no way of getting around this.

“Well, you daft prick, I fell in love.  I sodding fell in love with some crazy genius I’d only ever really talked to when he was eight thousand miles away.”  John paused to let that sink in, to wonder what the look on Sherlock’s face meant, fairly certain Sherlock was holding back his repulsion at the confession.

Sherlock looked confused. “Who are you talking about?”

“ _You,_ you daft ….Jesus.”  How someone so brilliant could be so thick, John would never know. 

“I fell in love with you and I didn’t want you to see me as I am now. I’m not whole anymore; I didn’t think we would ever have a chance together if you saw,” he waved his arm over the length of himself, “this.”

After several moments, Sherlock commented dryly, “Well, you were wrong.  Obviously.”  Sweeping his hand over the two bodies that were practically joined together, “Because here.  we.  are.”

Watching the dramatic flair of Sherlock’s arm wave over them, John released his nervousness with a giggle, grateful his admission had not been met with ridicule or disdain, but instead as something matter of fact.  Something obvious.

The edges of Sherlock’s mouth quirked as he saw John giggle, unable to keep himself from joining in.  They lied there laughing, not really knowing what they were laughing about.  But it felt good after all the tension, all the uncertainty there had been since they had re-discovered each other the night before.  And when the laughter died down, as they caught their breathe, Sherlock grew serious once again.

“John.”

Oh, Christ, here comes another question. 

“Bring it on,” John said, bracing himself.

Sherlock’s face crinkled in a way only his could as he considered his next words.  “You know what you said about being in love with me?”

“It was only a minute ago, Sherlock, of course I do.”  John held his breath, waiting for the ceiling to cave in on him.

“I,” Sherlock sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.  But as he looked at John, saw the open warmth in his eyes, the quiet strength, the man who would literally put his life on the line for a cause larger than himself, his hesitancy disappeared.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock said with an assuredness that could not be doubted.

Now it was John’s turn to be confounded.

His mouth opened. “I….,” but he wasn’t able articulate anything more.  Had he heard Sherlock right?  This magnificent creature in love?  With _him_?

“Oh.  Well, yeh.  Good news.  Yeh, uhh, surprising.  But good.  Very good,” he finally managed to get out.  He knew he wasn’t at his most articulate, but his brain wasn’t working quite right.

Sherlock felt the need to disabuse John of the notion that he couldn’t love him. “What you said about me not wanting you because you aren’t whole any more, I don’t agree.  When we became friends it had nothing to do with what you owned or what you did for a living or what condition your body was in.  It wasn’t important then and it isn’t important now.  You are exactly the same person to me now as….”

He tried to finish what he was saying, but it was impossible with John’s mouth suddenly taking claim of his own, making him forget what he was saying. 

Making him forget he was saying anything at all.

 

There would be plenty of time to talk later.

A lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me, I hope you enjoyed it :-D  
> It is shorter than I originally intended, but it seems a fitting place to conclude.   
> Off to other adventures now!


End file.
